


Infatuation

by disobediencefan



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disobediencefan/pseuds/disobediencefan
Summary: Rome: Aaron Peel has disappeared. Eve and Villanelle are forced back to London to recoup and strategise.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> A new direction post-Hugo/Villanelle/Eve-audio-threesome (S02E07).

**‘Ahem.’**

Villanelle stirred in her sleep. Her hand automatically reached for the microphone under her pillow; her sluggish brain remembering that she had placed it there last night. After she had played with Eve.

‘Ahem.’ The stranger’s exclamation was louder, this time Villanelle opened her eyes and looked up. Peel’s maid was standing at the foot of her bed, her arms pinned to her sides. ‘I apologise, but I must ask that you leave now. I’ve had orders to-’

‘Did you knock?’ Villanelle muttered, her Russian accent slipping out in her forgetfulness.

‘I have had direct orders to ask you to leave.’ The maid repeated herself, her thin lips tightly pursed in a distasteful manner. 

‘I’d like a glass of orange juice first. And a croissant.’ She remembered her American accent. She sat up, stretched her arms in front of her and moaned; Eve would like that. She smiled playfully at the agitated servant. 

At that moment, similar to everyone she met, Villanelle visualised how she could kill the maid. Her old neck was wrinkled and stretchy, it wouldn’t make a clean cut. Her head was smal though, meaning her skull was probably thin enough to smash onto the marble floor. Villanelle licked her lips, savouring the satisfying crack of bone meeting mineral.

‘There is no juice. And there is no breakfast. Your bag is at the door.’

‘Isn’t Aaron coming to see me off?’ Villanelle kicked off her silk covers and stood up, her nightgown lightly draping to just above her knees. She couldn’t wait to leave.

‘Mr Peel had to depart rather urgently.’

‘Where did he go?’

The maid sniffed a laugh, amused that this dumb American would really believe she would be informed of the billionaire’s location. ‘You know, he doesn’t bring many women here.’ She uttered. ‘I thought you might be different, but you’re quite below average.’

Villanelle didn’t reply. She enjoyed that people thought they could speak to her like this, like a cat toying with a thrashing, squawking bird; she allowed them to think they had power and strength, just to rip it away from them in an instant. 

‘That’s not very nice.’ Villanelle said. 

‘You must leave now.’

Disappointed in the maid’s sudden surrender, Villanelle huffed and her shoulders dropped. ‘Are you going to watch me get dressed?’ She asked as her nightgown slid to the floor, exposing herself entirely. 

The horror on the maid’s face was satisfying enough for a morning. Villanelle smiled as the old woman scurried from the room.

* * *

A complete fucking bust. 

Eve scowled as she thrusted their recording equipment into heavy cases, rolled up wires haphazardly and cast them aside to make room for the bulky monitors, surveillance tools and GPS readers. She desperately wanted to stay in Rome, far away from London, from Niko. She wanted Villanelle to stay in her ears and she had grown fond of the feeling of imminent danger rushing through her blood. But now Peel had suddenly disappeared, Carolyn had called short the remainder of their stay. Eve slammed a case onto the cheap hotel table.

‘You seem frustrated.’ Hugo sneered behind her, sipping his black coffee with that infuriating smirk on his face. 

‘This whole trip has been such a waste of time.’ Eve uttered, throwing the rolled up wires into any crevice she could find within the cases.

‘I don’t know about that.’ Hugo smiled, he sat up and stretched his back until Eve heard his spine crack. ‘I had my first threesome.’

‘Just… drop that, would you?’

Hugo raised his hands in defence, ‘I don’t-’

‘It’s kinda pathetic.’

‘Fine.’ Hugo conceded easily. That was why he’d been a perfect choice for the night before. He was malleable and easily influenced, and Eve knew that he wouldn’t cross her. ‘Are you gonna help me take this stuff to the van?’ She asked, exasperated and tired. She wanted to listen to Villanelle again.

‘Sure.’ Hugo had gone sombre and quiet, which Eve preferred. When they reached the empty cobbled street, two nameless MI5 agents in black leather jackets, trousers and sunglasses helped them load the hefty equipment into the back of the van. One of them mumbled something, but Eve wasn’t listening. Until Villanelle could get access to Aaron Peel or his sister again, there would be no permission granted for Eve to see her. An odd emptiness spread across her chest and stomach as she and Hugo rode to the Fiumicino airport.

* * *

‘You are to go directly to your flat from Heathrow, you understand?’ Konstantin said.

‘Yes.’ Villanelle sighed down the line. The phonebooth she was in smelled like stale piss and beer. ‘You have said it so many times.’

‘Well, you may be in danger!’ Konstantin sounded frustrated. ‘Nobody knows where Peel has gone.’ Villanelle heard him breathe slowly. ‘There will be a car waiting for you outside Terminal 5, you go there and-’

‘I know, I know. He will take me directly to my flat, _blah blah blah_.’

There was a slight pause in the conversation. ‘Why do you think it is a man?’ Konstantin asked playfully.

‘What?’

‘Why do you think your driver is a man?’

Villanelle’s mouth shrugged. ‘Is it a man?’

‘Yes, but you shouldn’t assume. That is sexist.’

‘You are boring me.’

Konstantin chuckled. ‘I will come by and see you later.’ Villanelle hung up before he had a chance to finish speaking.

After a dull plane journey of throwing peanuts at the whiny children in the row opposite her, hoping they were deathly allergic, she arrived back in England. Once again returning to the drizzly, grey skies that reminded her of the dismal Russian springtime. After passing through security, she rolled her suitcase through the terminal, tore off her wig and threw it into a bin. When she reached the taxi point, she recognised the plate-less black Mercedes waiting for her; the car she was supposed to get into. She stared at the driver, lifted her arm, hailed a black cab and clambered into it. 

‘Where to?’ The cabbie enquired.

‘The nearest supermarket to Regent’s Park.’ Villanelle replied as the car rolled past her waiting driver. The motorway passed them by and in her head, Villanelle was memorising something very important, something that she intended to start work on as soon as she reached her flat. 

_Onions, carrots, peas, mince, tomato puree, stock… Worcestershire sauce._


End file.
